


Swan

by Pares (kormantic)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Back When Krycek Was In the FBI, Drunkenness, Fake Drunkenness, M/M, Masturbation, Season/Series 02, Someone's Getting Jerked Around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-27
Updated: 1998-07-27
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9386729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/pseuds/Pares
Summary: Krycek's almost candid, and Mulder's nearly friendly. Or not.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is for my baby, Te. A belated birthday present, and debt made good. Set sometime just prior to the events of Duane Barry.

Alex Krycek was drunk on red wine. Cheap red wine. He was almost ashamed of himself.

Vodka would have been a better idea. Vodka made him itch for a brawl. Few things were more satisfying then the crunch of bone beneath your knuckles as you roundhouse some rube...

Red wine, on the other hand, made him gabby and maudlin. Dangerously so. He hadn't had red wine since he'd been fifteen years old.

He could still remember Marian Dewlicki's pallid little face.

"You let him...?" she'd stammered. He'd nodded, rubbed his streaming eyes on his sleeve. She was very still for a long excruciating moment, a moment he was sure he'd be shortly incarcerated... Marian's father was a cop.

Krycek vaguely remembered having thrown up for the first and last time in his drinking career that night, shortly before puking up his indiscretions to his prom date.

Then Marian had leaned in and whispered breathily in his burning ear, "Did you like it?" And he knew he'd gotten lucky.

Good old Marian. Marian Dewlicki... Probably married now, with a couple of brats... Fatter than she'd been in high school. Which was a shame, really, she'd been cute in that stodgy way that very bright fat girls could have...

Jesus. He was going to bawl in a minute... Nostalgia was the sweetest way to suicide, in his opinion. Fuck the good old days, he grumbled.

This was all Mulder's fault.

He looked up from his plastic wineglass and saw his own mottled reflection in the ancient mirror behind the bar. This bar... well, this "Italian Restaurant", was probably a converted disco; the music was still bad enough to make him hope that every eighties lite jazz band had been electrocuted in the same hot tub. Blearily, he focused on his companion, who was now drunk enough to forget not to look calculating.

He couldn't believe he'd actually fallen for the old "get the spy boy drunk" bit. He hadn't counted on not having eaten... or Mulder's astonishingly high tolerance. He'd have sworn Mulder was a tee totaling pantywaist when it came to hard drinking.

"Another bottle, Alex?" Mulder suggested, playing up the slur and banging the upturned bottle with the heel of his hand.

"I'm good, thanks. Blitzed, actually."

God, he hadn't giggled had he?

"So, where'd you go to school?"

Slick, Mulder, thought Alex, doing his best not to snigger behind his hand.

"University of New Orleans. But as a practicing Mormon, I never indulged in the carnivals, and as a result, never really fit in with the hedonistic atmosphere..."

Something about the set of his partner's eyebrows hinted that he was laying it on too thickly for even his Teflon coated steel suspension "Special Agent Krycek" personae to support....

"Huh. I would have picked you for a closet alcoholic."

Hello, Freud, thought Krycek as he very nearly spouted his last gulp of wine through his nostrils.

As Mulder reached across him for the peanuts, Krycek was hit with a bouquet du Mulder... a heady whiff of sweat and expensive cologne blended with Mulder's somehow comfortingly acrid beer breath as he mumbled, "Pass the pretzels."

Oh. No. Krycek cursed himself for letting his guard down... He couldn't be getting a hard on, he was not getting a hard on, he wasn't, no fucking way....

But denial wasn't helping... and his inability to look away from the man wasn't, either. Mulder, tousled and flushed with Guinness Stout, (from the bottle: "No, we don't got no more glasses.") was exerting considerable effort on drawing the kernel out of a peanut shell...

When he began to prod the little chamber with his tongue, Krycek had to bite his lip to keep from whimpering.

A moment later, or maybe an hour, as time meant nothing to a Krycek who had no oxygen getting to his brain, he watched as Mulder began to pat himself down. He checked his pockets twice, three times and uttered curses under his breath.

"Fuck..." he glanced around at his feet, shifted the stool and peered under the scarred bar ledge, gripping the torn vinyl bumper and leaning over a bit. This afforded Krycek a lovely view of an exceedingly fine ass....

Mulder straightened and ran a hand through his walnut hair, cursed again.

"I lost my wallet."

"S'okay. I've got..." Krycek counted out the bills folded in his pocket... 20 40 60 80-- wait. 20 40 60... Uh. 2 4 6 8... "Eighty bucks. That'll cover the bar tab."

"What about cab fare?"

"We've got enough to get to Arlington, right? I'll just crash with you. You can drive me back in the morning."

"Sounds good, yeah. Yeah. Where the hell..." Mulder stumbled slightly as he tugged his jacket from behind his partner's back. He couldn't seem to find the sleeve, though, and Krycek, exasperated, held it up for him and directed his arm into the tunnel of fabric.

Buttoning his own jacket discreetly, Krycek flung three twenties on the bar and watched Mulder stride to the door-- already, he seemed to have recovered himself. Perhaps he wasn't so drunk as he'd like Krycek to believe... the sly Fox.

His face was a blandly composed mask of civil servility as he followed his companion outside.

Once in the cab, Krycek all but clung to the window crank so he wouldn't inadvertently touch his partner. Even the thought of being hip to hip with the man beside him, fragranced and pliant with alcohol, made his teeth sweat.

//Agent Krycek suffers from a wholesome, gee-whiz case of hero worship. It won't do for you to unknot his tie with your teeth. Get a grip.//

Well, it wouldn't do with Krycek's teeth, his face. For a fevered moment, Krycek wished he'd been assigned to Mulder as a Yentl in reverse: pretty Alex in heels and the perfect shade of lipstick...

//Christ! Wait a minute. _No man_ refuses a blow job.//

Krycek let go of the door and leaned bonelessly against his fellow passenger.

" _nuk_ ," he muttered, rooting closer to a now rigid Mulder. He let his head loll on Mulder's shoulder, and made a damned good show of sleep.

Eventually, Mulder relaxed, even putting his arm loosely around Krycek's shoulder to keep his head from bouncing so much. Whatta guy.

Woozy from too much wine, Krycek began to pray for the cab ride to end. This much alcohol and this much jostling (Jesus, wasn't there a code against driving around without shocks?) was going to make him hurl. And nothing ruined a seduction faster than vomiting on your potential lover's ridiculously expensive suit.

As they pulled up beside Mulder's apartment, the man ruffed his hair and bounced Krycek's head on his shoulder.

"Wake up, buddy. We're here."

Krycek felt incapable of lifting his head. He was suddenly sure he'd have to cup his own chin in his hands and walk into Mulder's place carrying his own muzzy skull as one did a too-ripe fruit.

But then he remembered something crucial: Special Agent Krycek may have been piss drunk, but Alex was Alex, and he could leave Special K at the office. He rubbed his eyes, climbed out of the car and felt immediately better. Even his teeth felt sharper.

Mulder forgot to fumble with his keys and Krycek smiled in the dim hallway behind him.

Once inside, Krycek plastered on his best frat boy leer.

"Oh, man. I've got a woody." He cupped himself and squeezed proudly.

Mulder made no effort to conceal his distaste. And Special Agent Krycek should have been too drunk to notice the curling lip, but Alex wasn't.

"You got any stroke books?"

Making his way towards where he knew, according to schematics, Mulder kept his extensive "adult" video collection, he shuffled through a few tapes and poked one into the waiting maw of Mulder's blinking VCR.

It was mid-tape and something predictably breathy and couched in cheesy saxophone synthesizers blared in his ear. The lite jazz musicians yet lived, it seemed.

"Jesus, are you deaf or something?" He skipped back, careful to keep the upper lip high on his teeth, to showcase not just his harmlessness, but his drunken insipidity

"No."

"What?" He was enjoying this now; Mulder's color was rising.

"No!"

"Okay! You don't have to yell."

Mulder was slumped on the couch now, obviously seething. He hadn't struck Alex as the hospitable sort; more "no admittance". Alex did love a challenge.

"You know, I think I've seen this one," Alex remarked as he backed up from the screen so as not to miss the action. A disturbingly tan blonde ground her hips against a prone body builder with nipples like man-hole covers. Alex felt a little queasy, but kept his eyes on her until he met the coffee table with his calves. Then he walked around it and settled on the couch beside his host.

"Hey, Mulder," he whispered hoarsely. "How about helping a guy out here?" He waved invitingly toward his visible erection.

Mulder seemed not so much surprised as angry. Alex wondered if he'd have to take a punch when he saw the muscles bunch in Mulder's jaw. Krycek remembered not to flinch when Mulder's arm struck out... and stubbed the remote, interrupting the television's moaning glare.

"C'mon. It's not like it'll make you gay or anything," he said defensively, hoping he'd been able to keep the contempt out of his voice.

"This has nothing to do with your sexual orientation, Krycek. You're just a crude fuck when you're drunk. And somehow, I hadn't expected that."

Alex decided to show his cards.

"What did you expect, Mulder?" he asked smoothly. "Some kind of tearful commiseration? A rookie sob story about my first kill? Or something else? A confession, maybe?"

Mulder's face was still, careful. He'd miscalculated, and Alex wasn't going to let him forget it.

"I don't suppose you got me drunk for any reason in particular? You think I'm a spy."

Silence.

Alex scrubbed his face with his hands and pushed his hair back.

"What if I am? It's not like you'd know, not if I was any good at all. Why can't you take things at face value?"

This drew a single harsh bark of laughter from the older man.

"Maybe because I've just been treated to an Oscar Clip. 'Agent Krycek: Ugly Drunk'."

"Hey, you lead me on, I lead you on. I may look stupid, but you'd better remember I'm not." Alex wondered just how much truth he was using to build his lie now; how much was too much?

"I wasn't leading you on," said Mulder flatly.

"You weren't. Tell me you were so drunk I had to help you with your jacket?"

Mulder flushed again, and turned his head away.

"You're easy to look at, Mulder. And I know you know it." The wine made everything he said seem more complicated than it needed to be; but the alcohol haze was clearing up and his vision was beginning to glaze with something else entirely.

Lust was making his fingertips tingle; it was making Mulder's ears red. Krycek tried not to smile as he watched the crotch of Mulder's suitpants tent.

He laid his hand there, gently, and this earned him a burning look from his partner. Warning. Krycek could almost hear Mulder counting to himself; wisely, Alex estimated him as a 5 second man, and withdrew his hand before Mulder did it for him.

"This isn't a good idea," Mulder intoned. His face was stiff with the frown he was wearing, but Alex had felt him lift his hips, if only slightly, before removing his hand.

"No, it isn't." He placed his hand more judiciously now; high on his shoulder, close enough to stroke Mulder's throat with a finger if he so chose.

"I don't even like you," Mulder complained.

"That's probably true. But you still want to fuck me, though, don't you?"

Mulder colored again, but held his partner's eyes.

"Yes," he husked.

"Good."

He waited then, and Mulder leaned in, those lips parted...

//Always let the straight boy make the first move.//

Oh, but he tasted... Tasted so good. Stout and salt and soft, stroking tongue...

Mulder's hands roved sooner than he'd thought they would; sure fingers unbuckled his belt.

"Stand up," said Mulder, getting to his feet himself.

//Ready for bed already, Mulder?//

"Get _up_ ," the other man insisted; he tugged Krycek off the couch.

Now they were standing, facing each other, and Alex felt a twinge of misgiving...

"Take off your pants, Alex."

Mulder's eyes were very bright, and he was smiling... but there was something manic about it, rather than licentious. Then he leaned in again and licked Krycek's ear, breathed: "Please."

And Krycek dropped them.

Mulder settled into a crouch, peering up at Alex. He reached out and stroked the backs of two fingers down the curving muscle of Alex's lightly furred thigh.

Alex's mouth went dry.

With a gleam of humor and an aesthete's appreciation, Mulder molded a hand to each of Krycek's tensed thighs and caressed them judiciously.

"I'd have never guessed you had legs like this from the hideous suits you wear. Where did you get them?" Mulder's thumbs slipped under the legs of Krycek's striped boxers, and he wished them higher...

"The Men's Warehouse. 'You'll like how you look. I guarantee it.'"

A low, breathy chuckle from Mulder and he suddenly loomed in Krycek's vision; the older man had risen to his feet as smoothly as a wraith. He felt the flat of Mulder's hand against his chest.

"I meant the legs," Mulder murmured, before slamming him bodily against the wall and fitting himself knee to shoulder to his partner. Krycek could feel the jut of Mulder's erection against his hip, and gasped out loud when Mulder's exploring hand slid down his chest, and past the waistband of his boxers, to curl around his own swelling cock.

"I was the swan," Krycek managed.

" _What_?" Mulder sounded alarmed.

"I was the swan," Krycek rasped. "In Swan Lake. My mother made me take ballet..." Mulder was nuzzling his left nipple through the fabric of his shirt. The maddening rasp of his tongue against the cotton/poly blend was raking his nerves.

"The swan," Mulder prompted, irony coating his tone.

"It was..." Mulder closed his lips against Krycek's throat; satiny gloss against his skin,

"An..."

wide mouth open against Krycek's jaw, tempting warmth, teasing graze of teeth

"All"

closing on the bone, not _biting_ but holding him, holding him...

"Boys'"

Flex of Mulder's jaw; the pressure would leave a faerie ring like an inverted Stonehenge.

"School." Alex was panting; Mulder was not.

"That speaks volumes about you, Krycek." Hazel eyes laughed into his own.

"Do you think so? What does it say, exactly?" He chose this moment to press the heel of his hand against the bulge behind Mulder's fly. Mulder's strong hand gripped his wrist; his face was mild.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you. Unless... do you know the Secret Psychologist's Handshake?"

Krycek had lowered Mulder's zipper and reached inside.

"Oh," Mulder sighed. "I see you do..."

For the first time, Mulder's expression softened. Alex wondered if the other man's eyes were rolling back in his head; so hard to tell when they had their eyes closed...

And then he was cheek to cheek with Mulder's flat beige paint, his wrist wrenched uncomfortably high between his shoulder blades.

"If you _are_ a spy, the chances are good you won't want to report this. If you're not, the chances are even better. Here," Krycek felt something stuffed into his free hand-- paper. Money. Four crisp twenties, he would bet. "Take a cab home, buddy. On me."

Releasing Krycek's arm, he eased away from the younger man and crossed his arms across his chest. He wore the kind of "fuck you" smile Krycek would hardly have believed him capable. "It's a funny thing. I found my wallet."

Krycek was white; he was so pissed off he thought he might faint. His host turned and walked into his bedroom. Before he closed the door, he smiled again, politely.

"I think you can see yourself out."

But Alex didn't leave. He stood so still he could hear his own heartbeat... The zipper of Mulder's trousers and the jingle of his belt, even through the door, were loud in comparison. Alex glanced at the apartment door; yeah, he could see his way out-- he certainly didn't need any help there. Because he wasn't leaving.

He felt like he was going to fly apart. Shakily, he regulated his breathing. He felt almost light headed-- he'd been sure Mulder was going to blow him, or at least give him a hand job. Krycek felt cheated, and it rankled.

And now Mulder was... what _was_ Mulder, doing, anyway? No hiss of the shower-- he heard the _thwap_ of cloth huff against the wall. The creak of bedsprings... a drawer being opened and shut.

He wasn't.

He _was_.

Krycek skimmed out of his remaining clothes in 1.8 seconds and made for the bedroom. But the knob wouldn't turn. The fucking tease had locked the door.

For a moment, Krycek considered kicking it in... but that seemed a trifle extreme.

Instead, he braced his hands against the door and tried to stare _through_ it.

Mulder was in there. Naked. Hard. Dripping. Bringing himself off.

Just an inch or two of cheap woodgrain finish away.

He had almost no trouble hearing the slick slip of Mulder's hand over his cock. The wet sounds of manipulated flesh, and Mulder's near-silence-- Krycek strained to hear a whimper or a low moan, but there was only the odd caught breath and the moist jacking. Which was more than enough to make him want in. Badly.

He scratched a fingernail against the shellacked cherry veneer. It took every ounce of his reserve not to rub his leaking dick against the cool surface of the door and yowl like the cat in heat he felt like.

"Mulder..."

A small pause, a gulped breath, then more stroking sounds, faster now. Mulder was holding his breath.

"Mulder. Let me in."

The man behind the door was panting now. Any minute...

"Let me in," Krycek repeated. His voice sounded like it had broken all its bones... and then ground them into powder as fine and murderously sweet as Aspartame.

There was a stuttering exhalation; the bed stopped squeaking.

Weakly, Krycek rested his forehead against the door, squeezing his eyes shut, and pictured Mulder finishing: his head thrown back, grimacing, lips drawn back with the bucking bliss of orgasm, with a look so like pain that it was wonderful to see.

Krycek promised himself he _would_ see it.

He forced the door.

Mulder was sprawled on the bed, still wearing his shirt, still gripping his cock. He gave Krycek a smile that was smugly radiant.

"Couldn't get a cab?"

"What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?"

"I'm fine, thanks, " Mulder answered, and wiped his hand on a corner of the ivory topsheet.

"I'm right outside and _more_ than willing, and you jerk _yourself_ off!?"

"That would seem to be the case." He stood up and padded into the bathroom.

Krycek just stood there.

Never. In his _life_. Never had he been refused once he'd kissed them. Could this be the killing blow to his ego every one of his angry ex-lovers had promised him?

Of course not.

He calmly climbed into the bed-- sniffed at the sticky sheetcorner-- borrowed a palmful of lubricant and began what was referred to in more genteel settings as "intimate personal massage".

Mulder came out of the bathroom and walked on out the bedroom door.

Incensed, Krycek began to pump his snubbed erection with quick, efficient strokes. Mulder turned the t.v. on. Rocking his hips slightly, Krycek let out a low, shimmering moan of pure need. The t.v. got a little louder. Was that the farm report?

Determined, Krycek gave a breathy sigh, followed by a gasping sob... His wrist was snapping now and he pried one eye open, half expecting to see a cartoon blur. But it was merely his familiar, well formed hand stripping his well formed cock.

"C'mon, c'mon," he muttered, helpless now, and frustrated. He'd come, clean up, get dressed and get the fuck out of here. Go home and nurse his wounded ego and his hangover in the morning.

He shut his eyes again and concentrated.

"You know what they say," Mulder murmured in his ear, startling him badly and interrupting his rhythm. "Hairy palms."

Soft lips grazed the whorls as he spoke, and his humid breath curled into Krycek's ear and turned his brain into syrup.

Krycek had no idea how Mulder had knelt beside him without his noticing-- admittedly, he'd been distracted.

"Come for me, Alex." Mulder's eyes were feverbright, and his smile was an open invitation.

"Kiss me," whispered Krycek, wincing at the need in his voice.

Mulder complied, and it was molten, consuming, like hot liquor shot through his veins.

A welter of lust shattered like a pane of glass dropped on him from the ceiling and spun like dust devils over his skin. This generalized lust then coalesced into one dizzy Spirographing orgasm and Krycek curled his fingers, squeezed, and spurt.

"Very nice," Mulder complimented. He pecked Krycek's cheek and got to his feet. "See you in the morning."

He went back to his couch, leaving the door open. Krycek covered his face with a pillow that reeked pleasantly of an alcoholic Mulder and groaned into it.

Still berating himself, even with his hunger appeased, Alex replaced the pillow under his head, punched it a few times, sighed, lay his head down and went to sleep.


End file.
